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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29415750">pinky promise kisses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters'>flowermasters</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beard Burn, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Insecurity, Intimacy, Jealousy, Jealousy Kink, Minor Character(s), Oral Sex, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), ambiguous setting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:22:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29415750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s not why I’m late, though. Clea stopped by.”</p><p>“Oh?” Christine says, glancing up at his back as he pulls down two glasses.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Palmer/Stephen Strange</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>pinky promise kisses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>don't ask me about comics canon! i'm merely here for a laff</p><p>where there's a dearth of smut, there, you will find me. happy almost-valentine's day!</p><p>title comes from "once more to see you" by mitski.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Christine?”</p><p>She has to give herself <em> some </em> credit; she only startles a little when Stephen calls her name from the living room, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the music from the stereo.</p><p>“In here,” she says, although she’s sure he knows where she is and was merely announcing himself out of courtesy. She glimpses him through the open space over the bar, then turns her attention back to the stove. “You can turn the music down.”</p><p>The volume drops significantly, and then Stephen sweeps into the kitchen. “Good choice,” he says, smiling when she glances over her shoulder at him. <em>“Face the Music, </em> 1975, side two.”</p><p>As he crosses the small kitchen with three long strides, his clothes seem to glow with golden light, the familiar indigo robes shimmering until suddenly they’re not robes at all, but a blue knit sweater and jeans. His pet cloak has already made itself scarce—probably lurking in the living room, waiting to scare her tomorrow morning by looking exactly like a person standing in the shadows. “Whatever that is smells incredible. Sorry I’m late.”</p><p>“Mushroom risotto,” Christine says, accepting his kiss on the cheek with a little flush of pleasure. She was off today; she’s been looking forward to seeing him for hours. “It’s alright. Did you remember the wine?” </p><p>His brow furrows very slightly as he pulls back to look at her. “You didn’t ask me to bring wine.”</p><p>She sighs. “I always ask you to bring wine.”</p><p>“Not always,” he says. “Today, for example, you did not.”</p><p>Christine practically goes cross-eyed, and Stephen says, “Don’t worry. One moment, please.”</p><p>As she continues rhythmically stirring the risotto, he steps over to her fridge, opens the door, and then—with a faint flicker of gold—withdraws a bottle of white wine that definitely wasn’t in there before. Show-off. </p><p>“You get any better at that,” Christine says, “and you might be able to take it on the road.” </p><p>“Yes, very funny,” Stephen says, but she can tell by the way his mouth twitches that he does find it amusing. Of the many things that have changed about him post-magical awakening, his fledgling ability to take a joke at his own expense has been a pleasant surprise. “You’ll have to thank Wong for tonight’s bottle service. Or blame him, judging by the label on this.”</p><p>“I trust his palate,” Christine says. She’s been known to indulge with a $10 bottle of Barefoot moscato, to be honest, but she can admit that Stephen’s picks are usually superb. “How is Wong?”</p><p>“Fine, fine,” Stephen says, passing his free hand fleetingly over the small of her back as he heads for the cabinet where she keeps her wine glasses. “He’s not why I’m late, though. Clea stopped by.”</p><p>“Oh?” Christine says, glancing up at his back as he pulls down two glasses.</p><p>“She’s been traveling for several weeks,” Stephen says, opening the drawer with the bottle opener. It takes him a few beats longer than it once would have to open the bottle, the circular twisting motions no doubt uncomfortable, but in a moment he’s bringing her a glass, perfectly chilled. “Searching for more relics. Fascinating stuff.”</p><p>“Relics?” Christine says, mostly out of habit, and Stephen accepts this as a display of curiosity and begins describing some of the things Clea has been looking for—a harp that puts any listener into a deep catatonia, missing for five hundred years; a blade that was once used by the Ancient One six centuries ago.</p><p>Clea is one of the mere handful of sorcerers Christine has ever seen, and even then she’d only caught a peek. Wong had let her in to the Sanctum one evening, and she’d glimpsed Stephen on her way up the stairs to wait; he was sitting in a smoky sideroom, the door ajar for Wong to return, talking animatedly to a robed young woman with silvery-blonde hair. She was striking even from that distance, but Christine had thought little of her until later, when Stephen had described the conversation at length. He’s as lively now as he was then, gesturing with his free hand as he speaks, clearly pleased at the threads Clea has been pulling. </p><p>“Christine,” Stephen says, pausing in his movements. “Is everything alright?”</p><p>“Hmm?” she says, looking up at him where he’s come to lean against the nearest counter. “Of course.”</p><p>“Are you sure?” he asks over the rim of his glass. “You’re giving that pot quite a workout.”</p><p>“Risotto needs to be babied,” she says mulishly, but she reduces the vigor of her movements. It’s nearly done, anyways. “Finish telling me about Clea, I’m listening.”</p><p>“I don’t think you are,” he says, his voice dipping into a tease. “Because I just said we’ve been looking all over the Sanctum for Wong’s favorite pair of bloomers.”</p><p>Christine gives him a wry look. “Well,” she says, “I hope you were a big help, to end up thirty minutes late.”</p><p>Stephen frowns slightly, but mostly seems taken aback by this—an admittedly rare expression on him. “It was barely twenty,” he says, and Christine rolls her eyes. “Is something wrong?”</p><p>“Of course not,” Christine says, reaching for her glass with her free hand. The wine is sharp, not too sweet; a good choice. She’ll have to bring Wong a new bottle when she sees him again—though she has no idea when she’ll be at the Sanctum next. Perhaps she should stop by more often. It always feels vaguely illicit, being there, although she’s been invited more than once.</p><p>“Hold on,” Stephen says. He’s watching her; she can practically feel his brain buzzing, synapses firing, working her out like a puzzle.</p><p>“Stephen,” she says. “Get the plates, would you?”</p><p>“You’re not jealous,” he says, “are you?”</p><p>Christine lifts the pot off the hot burner and plunks it down onto a cool one with a bit more force than is intentional. “Fine,” she says, <em>“</em><em>I’ll </em> get the plates.”</p><p>“Christine,” he says as she shifts to open the cabinet to her right.</p><p>She’s stalling—what can she say? <em> Don’t be ridiculous? </em> But he isn’t being ridiculous, because—as it has suddenly dawned on her—she <em> is </em> jealous. The feeling has been at a simmer since he mentioned the girl’s name, but it gets closer to boiling over the longer he watches her like that.</p><p>It isn’t like she’s never experienced the feeling before, but—it’s unusual, for her. She’s never been that person. And Stephen, for all his flaws, has never been the wandering eye type. How could he have been? He barely used to have room in his life for one woman, let alone multiple, and that hasn't changed.</p><p>She pulls down a couple plates, then digs two forks out of her cluttered silverware drawer; under other circumstances, she’d be cooking and Stephen would be rearranging cutlery, muttering about never being able to find anything. And she’d make a joke about salad forks and scalpels or something, and he would—</p><p>“Hey,” he says, reaching for her, catching lightly at her wrist. “Would you stop for a minute?”</p><p>It’s difficult not to feel chastised, but Christine pauses and meets his eyes, holding firm. “Let me guess,” she says. “I’m being ridiculous.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t say that,” Stephen says, looking deliberately away as he sets his glass down on the counter.</p><p>“You would think it.”</p><p>He sighs and lets go of her wrist. “Christine. There’s absolutely nothing going on between Clea and me.”</p><p>“I didn’t say there was anything going on,” she says flatly. “That doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.”</p><p>“There’s nothing there,” Stephen says. “She’s a bit young, for one. And I’m a superior, as far as she’s concerned.”</p><p>“Like you’d be the first doctor to pull that,” Christine mutters, reaching for a couple of napkins from the holder on the counter. Stephen huffs, but he doesn’t have a rebuttal for that one.</p><p>He’s frowning at her now; there’s no teasing hint to his expression like there was a few moments ago. “I’m serious,” he says. “She’s talented, sure, but that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with her. She’s practically—a resident. Aren’t you the one who said I should be nicer to them, way back when?”</p><p>She did say that, multiple times over the span of several years. It never stuck. “She’s not a resident,” Christine says. “She’s a sorcerer. One of you.”</p><p>She glances up, expecting to find him stumped by this, or more likely mulling over a retort, but instead his expression has softened slightly. “Christine.”</p><p>Christine hesitates, unable to think of anything else to fidget with; it’s not like her to run from an argument, but here she is, debating the merits of sidestepping him to get to the cabinet with the glassware in it. It’s not like her to be insecure, either, yet she must seem painfully so, to him.</p><p>“She’s a gifted sorcerer,” Stephen says. “What she isn’t, however, is you.”</p><p>Christine flushes, half pleased and half embarrassed, and goes for her wine again. “That’s sweet of you,” she says. “It’s okay if you think I’m being ridiculous. <em> I </em> think I’m being ridiculous.”</p><p>He takes a step forward, closing much of the distance between them. “Hey,” he says, catching at her wrist again as she puts her glass back down. “It’s not a line, I mean it. You’re the only one for me.” He pauses, then makes a wry face. “Which might say more about your saintlike patience than anything.”</p><p>Christine huffs a laugh despite herself and allows it when he uses his light grip on her arm to pull her in, close to his chest. He embraces her, his hands moving lightly over her lower back, rustling softly against the cable-knit fabric of her sweater. He’s fond of interesting textures, now that the nerve damage in his fingers obfuscates so many of the finer details; she wore this sweater for him.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Christine says, resting her head against his shoulder.</p><p>“Don’t be,” he replies. “It’s kind of sexy.”</p><p>Christine laughs, hiding her face against his collarbone briefly. “Shut <em> up</em>.” </p><p>He grins, then kisses the side of her head. He lingers for a moment before his lips brush the shell of her ear. “I’m serious,” he says, voice low. “Should I prove it? My devotion to you?”</p><p>“Don’t be cheesy,” she says. </p><p>“You like it.”</p><p>“And don’t tease me.”</p><p>“You like that, too,” he says, smug fuck.</p><p>Christine shivers, easy. The first time they ever slept together, she knew it would be a problem down the line—the kind of habit she would hate to kick. Her friend Claire had once said, her expression knowing, that sex with a guy like Stephen would have to be incredible for any sane person to keep him around. <em> Well</em><em>,</em> she’d added, her expression wry, <em> rich neurosurgeon, that doesn’t hurt. </em></p><p>She turns her head to let him kiss her, but doesn’t linger. “But dinner—”</p><p>“It’ll wait,” Stephen says, and kisses her again.</p><p>He leads the way into the living room, but doesn’t take the hard left to go to her bedroom, instead pulling her towards the couch. She hadn’t expected them to eat on the couch, so the lights are slightly lower than normal in the living room, the stereo still playing at a low volume. They must’ve made it to a new album by now, but she can’t place the tune.</p><p>“Stephen,” Christine says, dragging her feet and glancing pointedly at the cloak lurking in the corner.</p><p>He sighs, half exasperated and half amused, and then clears his throat. The cloak almost seems to startle, as if surprised to be noticed, then flounces away, sequestering itself in her room and even shutting the door behind itself.</p><p>On the couch, Stephen peels her clothes off of her, article by article, and neatly evades the hands grabbing at his own clothing. She feels warm all over, almost tipsy, though she’s only had a few sips of wine. She’s kiss drunk, then, her skin buzzing from the rasp of his beard all over.</p><p>It’s ridiculously easy to get her out of her clothing, and she feels noticeably exposed with his clothed body kneeling over her; he’s only kicked off his shoes. It’s not an unpleasant feeling—more the opposite—but she squirms, restless. </p><p>“Stephen—”</p><p>“Shh,” he says, mouth against her breast, before he shifts off the couch to kneel on the floor.</p><p>He takes hold of her hips, guiding her to shift until her shoulders are pressed against the backrest, her knees spread to accommodate his shoulders. He drags his mouth slowly over her thighs, using teeth intermittently, little nips whenever she least expects it; she watches, almost embarrassed by how enthralled she is. He glances up at her, a lock of hair falling over his forehead, displaced by her hands, and she lifts her hips slightly and spreads her thighs wider, keeping her voice deliberately steady when she says, “Stephen.”</p><p>His mouth on her is a relief, a point to focus on amidst the all-consuming sensation of being scrutinized, eaten alive by his gaze. It’s always a little intimidating, at first, to be on the receiving end of his considerable focus, but she settles into it now, letting him work her up. He always was cleverer with his hands, and two of his fingers slide home now, less clever than they once were but suitable, still, for what she needs. </p><p>Orgasm comes quickly enough, a relief, a sigh and a loosening of the limbs. Instead of easing off after she comes or giving her a break, he keeps going, crooking his fingers and increasing the pressure of his tongue so that she doesn’t have the option to be quiet anymore. “Stephen,” she says again, one of her hands fluttering nervously around her own throat, unable to land, the other lightly gripping his hair. “I—oh, <em> shit</em><em>.</em> Jesus.”</p><p>He lifts his free hand and presses down on her pelvis, holding her still. The possessiveness of the gesture sends her over the edge again, and still he doesn’t let up, not til she’s come a third time a few minutes later. Finally she pushes his head away with an unsteady hand, gone briefly nonverbal. Her thighs and cunt are tender, flesh rubbed nearly raw by his beard; she’s going to be miserable tomorrow. She’d let him do it all over again anyways.</p><p>He presses a damp kiss to her hip. “You okay?” he husks.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says. She licks her lips, forces some stiffness back into her spine so that she can lift her head from where it lolls back against the couch. He’s watching her, clearly pleased with himself. “Get up here, quit dicking around.”</p><p>He clambers up onto the couch, and they clumsily rearrange, him braced on his elbows and knees over her. “You know,” he says, fumbling with the zipper of his jeans, “‘dicking around’ is kind of exactly what I’m—”</p><p>“Shut up,” she tells him, her voice breaking slightly when he guides himself in.</p><p>This fucked out, she’s content to just lie there, slick and open, the denim of his jeans biting into her tender flesh while he fucks her. He kisses her at first, but then has to stop after a few minutes, breathing unsteadily against her cheek. “Christine,” he mumbles, asking her for something, one of his big hands tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck.</p><p>“Yeah,” she breathes, wrapping her arms more tightly around him, rucking his sweater up slightly so that their bare stomachs press against one another, the sensation somehow more intimate than anything else. “Yes, yeah—”</p><p>He groans against her jaw, his thrusts sharpening, and then comes a moment later, shuddering faintly. She holds him against her, rubbing light, lazy circles over his back, and groans softly when his weight eases down onto her. “You’re heavy,” she says, barely a protest.</p><p>“Mm, sorry,” he says, lazy and catlike. He does shift, but only to brace his weight on his elbows again.</p><p>He eyes her from this vantage point, one of his eyebrows creeping up. “Feeling better?” he asks.</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she says. Then, “Maybe a little.”</p><p>He chuckles, then kisses the corner of her mouth lightly. She’ll need a shower before dinner; maybe he’ll have the food waiting for her, hot, when she’s done. </p><p>But they don’t move yet, instead lying together for a minute longer, limbs tangled. She’ll probably feel ridiculous again later, when she thinks back to what got them here, but maybe it’s for the best that she got it all out—she can put the whole thing to bed now. Stephen doesn’t seem to mind, anyway, his gaze on her undeniably fond.</p><p>“Don’t let it go to your head or anything,” Christine says, after a moment, “but I think you might be the only one for me, too.”</p>
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